


Hope is a Four-Letter Word

by vacantVisionary



Series: Arkstuck [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:10:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vacantVisionary/pseuds/vacantVisionary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old, but I'm not that old<br/>Young, but I'm not that bold<br/>And I don't think the world is sold<br/>I'm just doing what we're told</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope is a Four-Letter Word

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the universe of Arkstuck, a Transformers continuity rebuilt from the ground up to be way more gay and trans, and heavily inspired by the Marvel UK and IDW comics. There's a LOT more to come, so watch this account (or arkstuck.tumblr.com) for future installments!

“-- to defend truth and justice and the divine authority of the Prime against all --”  
  
This room is lit with a harsh, bright glare, and its walls are sterile and white. At the front, a short, bored-looking Cybertronian painted in dull browns and blues paces back and forth, glancing down at the holopad in her hand, then up at the room around her, then back down at her holopad.  
  
“-- officers with respect and propriety, and to follow their commands with loyalty and --”  
  
The rest of the room is completely filled with sixteen rows of Cybertronians, with each row being sixteen Cybertronians wide. Their colors are a riot of proudly personal touches. But under that freshly applied paint, their frames - their heights, their proportions, even their alt modes - are all completely identical.  
  
“-- cog and my very spark over to the Autobot Cause, no matter the --”  
  
Somewhere in the sea of bodies stands a Cybertronian named Kup. His left hand, like every left hand in the room, is raised. His right hand, like every right hand in the room, is pressed to a copy of the Primal Pentateuch. His voice, like every voice in the room, is speaking the words of the Autobot Oath.  
  
“-- solemnly swear to do, as Primus is my witness, till all are one.”  
  
“Till all are one,” mutters the Cybertronian with the datapad in the sudden silence, and then scurries out of the room. The teleprompter behind her retracts into the ceiling, and all two hundred and fifty six Primal Pentateuchs - bolted securely to their podiums - retract into the floor.  
  
They are all now Autobots. They are all barely three hours old.

  


 

The sergeant - a self-satisfied Autobot with a chassis decked in extravagantly-colored stripes and an upper lip adorned with an equally extravagant facial insignia - has been lecturing them on the true nature of the Autobot Code for hours. The recruits have had to stand the whole time, to “encourage discipline and endurance,” but mostly what it has encouraged Kup to do is tune out the sergeant’s endless blustering. He catches the words “-- times of great turmoil like these, we must ask ourselves --” before his attention is caught by a quiet snicker to his left. He glances over. The Autobot standing on his left is bright red and orange, with yellow flames on his chest. And he's - very quietly - laughing.  
  
“What's so funny?” Kup whispers.  
  
The brightly-colored Autobot glances over, his blue eyes glimmering, clearly excited to have an audience. He puffs up his chest, puts an index finger to his upper lip, and intones quietly but dramatically, “we MOUSTACHE ourselves --” before doubling over into another giggle. Kup can’t help himself. He laughs out loud, high and joyous -- and then claps a mortified hand over his mouth. But it's too late.  
  
“You two! In the back!” The sergeant is looking directly at them, his eyes glinting with petty power. “I see that you think that the Autobot Code is very funny. Well, I will be more than happy to disabuse you of the notion. You are both to report to the mess hall for energon dispenser cleaning duty. And afterwards you can come to my office, to catch up on what you've missed.” Kup doesn't move, still frozen with fear. “Am I understood?” the sergeant snaps. “Or are you still too busy laughing?"  
  
Kup bolts out of the room, shaking with mortified embarrassment. His pace slows as he clears the doorway, and by the time he reaches the opposite wall, his momentum merely pushes his forehead into it with a satisfying clunk. Before he has any time to wallow in his misery, however, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He spins around to see the bright orange face of the jokester he had inadvertently unmasked. “I'm so sorry -” he starts, but the other recruit snorts dismissively.  
  
“What for? You were great.” He grins, and sticks out a hand. “The name's Hot Rod.”  
  
Something about Hot Rod's devil-may-care smirk is irresistibly infectious, and Kup returns it, tentatively. “Kup,” he says, gently taking Hot Rod’s hand -- and starts at how tightly Hot Rod squeezes back.  
  
“Kup!” Hot Rod's grin deepens, and he continues vigorously shaking Kup's hand. “A pleasure to meet you” Without releasing his grip, he begins walking confidently down a hallway that very definitely does not lead towards the mess hall, pulling a surprised but not unwilling Kup behind him. “Now let's see what other sorts of trouble we can get ourselves into.”

  


 

All of Kup’s servos are sore. The rest of the cadets are all asleep, but Kup’s in too much pain to power down properly, so for the past hour he’s laid motionless on his recharge slab, staring at the unpainted steel ceiling and cursing whoever designed Autobot boot camp’s endurance training.  
  
A vision in blinding reds and yellows suddenly eclipses his view of the ceiling. For a moment Kup thinks the barracks are on fire, but then he realizes it’s just Hot Rod, grinning down at him. “Hey Kup!” he says. “Wanna come bust open some teachers’ lockers with me?”  
  
“Sorry… can’t,” Kup mumbles. “Too sore.”  
  
“Wuss,” says Hot Rod good naturedly, and gives Kup a friendly punch in the arm. Kup grimaces with pain, and Hot Rod’s face falls into a worried frown. “You alright?” he asks.  
  
“Not… really,” says Kup. “Just… be careful.”  
  
“Gotcha,” says Hot Rod. He straightens out of Kup’s field of vision, and then gently sits down on the edge of Kup’s recharge slab.  
  
There’s a pause. Somewhere in the middle of it Kup begins to feel a series of rhythmic thumps reverberate through his recharge slab, the familiar tempo of Hot Rod bouncing his leg.  
  
“Y’think you could stagger your way over to the cafeteria?” Hot Rod suggests. “We could go tray racing!”  
  
“Probably… not.”  
  
Hot Rod sighs. After a moment, the sound of his thumping leg is replaced by the equally-familiar rhythm of his drumming fingers. Kup dims his optics and lets a bit of tension drain from his back.  
  
“Okay, I think I’ve got it this time,” Hot Rod says. “I drive you over to the firing range, we weld five practice rifles together, and --”  
  
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just... go do one of those things without me?” Kup asks, not really meaning it.  
  
Hot Rod stands up very quickly, rattling the recharge slab. “Do you want me to go?” he asks. “I can go, if I’m bothering you.”  
  
Kup winces, partially from the jolt, partially from the words. “No, no, it’s fine. I like -- having you here. I’m just, not. Very interesting, right now.”  
  
“Oh,” says Hot Rod. He sits down slowly, this time on the floor, and rests his back against the recharge slab. “I’ll stay here, then. Anyways, none of those things are as fun to do alone.”  
  
The two of them sit there together in the dark for a long while, the only sound the distant clicking of Hot Rod’s fingers against the floor.  
  
Finally, Kup breaks the silence. “Hey, Hot Rod.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“What if I told you a story?”  
  
Hot Rod turns to look at Kup, his expression unsure. “What, like, one of the five Great Cybertronian Novels? What’s the point of retelling those? We all had them uploaded into our braincases during sparking.”  
  
Kup turns his head to meet Hot Rod’s gaze, his servos shrieking in protest. He ignores them. “No, I mean, like… a different story. A new story. One that I came up with myself.”  
  
Hot Rod tilts his head as he considers this, fingers drumming out their same old beat. Then, he nods with a smile. “Alright. Show me what you got.”  
  
Kup returns the smile. Then, slowly at first, but with increasing speed and confidence, he begins to speak. “Once upon a time, there was a great Autobot leader and hero, wise and brave, loved by all. And his name was Rodimus Prime…”

  


 

“I never realized the sky was so... big."  
  
Next to him, Hot Rod nods, slowly. “It's wonderful."  
  
Behind them, the shuttle, an Autobot named Sky Lynx, disgorges the last of soar passengers and leaps back into the air. They should be joining their fellow soldiers inside of their first post-graduation assignment - a small outpost on the outskirts of Iacon - but Kup and Hot Rod both stand transfixed, staring up at the endless expanse of void filled with glimmering points of light.  
  
"There was a picture,” Kup says quietly, “in the language files they gave us. It was -”  
  
“Just a square of washed-out white dots. I know.” Hot Rod laughs with amazement. “And that was it. That was what ‘the sky’ meant, right? That was all the sky could ever be. We had no idea...” He trails off.  
  
Kup turns to look at Hot Rod. They’re closer together than Kup had realized, shoulder to shoulder, almost touching. He looks back up at the stars, but he can still feel Hot Rod’s presence like the warmth of a burning fire. He turns his head away, straightens his back, and closes his eyes. And then, very carefully, he reaches over -- just the tiniest twitch of an arm -- and takes Hot Rod’s hand in his.  
  
For a moment, Kup isn’t sure what’s happening. Is his hand trapped under some rubble? Did it get caught in Hot Rod’s side mid-transformation? Did Primus himself push it aside, to save his hopes from being dashed against cold hard reality? Then he looks down and sees that Hot Rod is holding his hand, his grip tight enough to hurt, tight as panic, tight as a prayer. Around them, Cybertron holds its breath. Even the stars seem to have stopped twinkling, as if to keep this moment from escaping.  
  
And then, finally, Kup turns to Hot Rod and says, “Hey, uh, could you ease up a little? I can’t feel my fingers.”  
  
Hot Rod lets out a strange mixture of laugh and cough, and wipes a drop of coolant fluid from his glistening optics. “Sorry about that,” he says. His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go.  
  
“I didn’t want to, you know, say anything,” Kup adds, “but, uh....”  
  
“It’s fine,” says Hot Rod, smiling. “You don’t have to apologize.”  
  
Kup considers this for a moment. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”  
  
The two of them stand there together for a long time, letting the starlight wash over them. 

 

The battlefield is beautiful.  
  
Spilled energon pools bright and pink on the cobalt-blue hills underfoot. Above, vibrantly colored jets zip back and forth, silhouetted against the dull pink clouds and the endless void of space. In between is the eternal darkness of Cybertron, stretching out to the horizon.  
  
And Kup doesn’t notice any of it, because behind him, eclipsing the rest, is Hot Rod. He can’t see him, can’t even glimpse any flashes of orange and yellow in his peripheral vision. But he can feel Hot Rod’s back pressed against his own.  
  
Under Hot Rod’s metallic skin, Kup can feel a series of pistons tense. Before he can even consciously register what the sensation means, he swings his blaster up and over his shoulder and fires. He hears Hot Rod’s blaster hum in the same moment, their weapons singing out a perfect fifth, and then the sound of two laser bolts burning into Decepticon chassis.  
  
“Nice shot,” says Hot Rod, stepping forward. In the same moment, Kup steps backwards, closing the gap between them before it has a chance to open.  
  
“It was your shot - I just followed your lead.” Kup points his blaster straight out to the side, arm fully extended. Hot Rod is already following his motion, and the backs of their hands clink together as they both pull their triggers. Both shots hit Decepticon. “Now that one,” Kup says, “you can compliment me on.”  
  
Hot Rod laughs, short and sharp and sweet.  
  
The harsh voice of Sergeant Hound crackles in their earpieces. “Fall back to staging point 17!”  
  
Kup transforms into his vehicle mode, and Hot Rod vaults into his truckbed. The two speed off, with Hot Rod laying down covering fire on the retreating Decepticons.  
  
“You know,” says Kup, conversationally, “this reminds me of the Battle of Simanzi Plateau.”  
  
“Which one?” asks Hot Rod, without turning around. “The first? The seventy seventh? The three hundred and twenty eighth?”  
  
“I’m… not sure,” says Kup, swerving around a mine. “They all sort of blur together after a while.”  
  
For a minute or so, neither of them speak. Then Kup says, “You know… I don’t think I would mind if I had to fight another three hundred Battles of Simanzi Plateau. As long as we got to fight them together.”  
  
Hot Rod grins, brilliant and burning and fierce. “I know what you mean,” he says, as he lands a shot directly through a Decepticon’s left optic.

 

“Kup!”  
  
Hot Rod barrels into their shared quarters at top speed. He scoops Kup up and out of his chair and spins him around in a chassis-crushing hug. Kup laughs delightedly, and then says, “Hot Rod, what happened?” and then he laughs again, for the sheer joy of it.  
  
Hot Rod drops Kup - not hard, but not delicately, either - and grabs both of Kup’s hands in his own. “They picked us! Kup, they picked us! We’re going on the Ark! We’re going to get to see Optimus Prime! We’re going to be a part of history!”  
  
Kup considers this, his face pursed in mock deliberation. “Do you think we should accept? That sounds like a pretty boring mission.”  
  
For a moment, Hot Rod looks hurt - and then Kup’s poker face cracks into a mischievous grin. “You little -” Hot Rod starts to say, but Kup kisses him full on the mouth, and the rest of the sentence collapses into a muffled, delighted hum.  
  
When they finally break apart, Hot Rod is smiling dreamily. “I really love you, you know that?”  
  
Kup snorts, smiling too. “Like you’d ever let me forget it.”  
  
“Never,” says Hot Rod, staring into Kup’s optics with his brilliant blues. “I’ll never let you forget. Not in a million years.”  
  
They both lean in for another kiss - and then, for Kup, everything goes black. 

  
EPILOGUE

  
Kup stares blankly at the datapad on his desk. He raises and lowers his glasses a few times, but it doesn’t help - the words remain unreadably blurred together. He shakes his head, shuts off the datapad, and stands up.  
  
“Going somewhere, Munitions Officer Kup?” Fortress Maximus asks politely into his ear.  
  
“Recharge slab,” Kup grunts. “Not getting any work done like this.”  
  
“I see,” Fortress Maximus says. “I will inform Hound that he is needed on duty. Sleep well, Munitions Officer.”  
  
Kup doesn’t reply. As he walks down Autobase’s central corridor, he rests his hand on the pistol at his hip - an old reflex, and a useless one. It’s been so long since he unlatched the safety that it’s probably rusted shut. He’s not even required to carry a weapon, these days - he only does it to help him remember.  
  
Kup opens the door to his private hab suite. He doesn’t see the clutter. He doesn’t see the dust. He doesn’t see a room that barely looks like anyone lives in it. He doesn’t see anything at all, because his optics were shuttered before he even reached the door. He walks over to his recharge slab by pure muscle memory, and collapses strutlessly onto it.  
  
It’s been four million years since a flareup of his childhood rust infection left Kup in the medbay for a week, unconscious and unfit for duty. Four million years since the day the Ark launched without him. Four million years since it vanished. Four million years since Hot Rod and all the rest of the Autobots on board were pronounced missing, presumed dead. Kup thinks about that day, sometimes. If he’s being honest with himself, he thinks about it a lot. He thinks about it now, too, as he lies alone in his dark and empty room and waits for sleep to come.  
  
It takes a long time for sleep to come.


End file.
